A Beautiful Mess
by karanecole
Summary: John Watson is finally settling into the married life. Sherlock has been settled in his married life, married to his work of course. But what happens when Hermione Granger moves into 221B? What a beautiful mess this will be.
1. A New Tenant

**A/N: Hello all! I am so, so very sorry for those of you who read to chapter 4, which was previously present, because I reread this recently and decided that I would enjoy writing this much more if I actually rewrote it, as my writing has (hopefully) improved. I hope you guys will still actually enjoy it, and I plan to (finally) really commit and make sure to continue to update this story. Without further ado, A Beautiful Mess. **

"John, come along." Sherlock looked in the narrow mirror hanging on his bedroom door as he adjusted his trusty, blue scarf. As he walked out of his room, he even glanced at the deer-stalker, which had been sitting on his chest-of-drawers gathering dust for God knows how long, before scoffing and making his way towards the living room of 221B. "I've got us a-".

Sherlock stopped in his tracks, and though the young man would never admit such a vulnerable moment to anyone, his heart dropped to his stomach, and had anyone else been there, they would've sworn his eyes glistened.

John Watson, his doctor, his blogger, his partner, and most of all, the best friend Sherlock ever had the pleasure of having, sat in his chair, just as he always had, but this time a suitcase stood on the floor next to him. "Me and Mary are- well we're married, Sherlock," When Watson stood, his movements were slow, and his age showed in his face, as well as the sadness he felt. "I can't just live with my mate forever when I have a wife."

"No, no of course," Sherlock mustered a small smile for his friend, "I wouldn't expect you to." The detective looked around the small flat, and it flooded him with memories. Memories, of him and his best friend. Speaking to clients, trips to crime scenes and the morgue, nights of violin playing and nicotine patches and everything in between. Memories that, despite Sherlock's stoic front and anti-social behavior, he would never forget. Sherlock turned away and closed his pale blue eyes tight. "You'll still visit, won't you?"

John chuckled, as though the question in itself was preposterous. "Of course I will," He walked to Sherlock, suitcase in one hand, and clapped the other on his friend's shoulder. "You're my _best man_." The two shared a smile, and Sherlock walked with John to the top of the stairs, and watched him reach the bottom of the steps. His partner-in-crime, or perhaps his partner-in-crime-solving, turned back to him with a sly grin. "Besides, I'm sure your new flat mate will keep you busy."

And with that, the doctor left.

Sherlock sat in silence, his fingers pressed firmly together in front of him. He sighed and closed his eyes. '_New __flat mate. How did John keep this from me?' _As if she were an answer herself, Mrs. Hudson rapped three, quick times on the door and let herself in. "Has he told you then?"

The man remained pensive as he replied, "You didn't tell me you were already searching for a new flat mate."

"You didn't ask," Mrs. Hudson smiled down on him, and patted his shoulder. "I know you'll miss him Sherlock. But this was his idea! He knows you need someone, so he thought we should start looking. Don't worry, she's truly a sweetie."

At this, Sherlock's eyes opened swiftly. "She?"

"Yes, dear," His landlady was already bustling around his flat, a duster in her hand, definitely not doing anything that could fall into the category of '_housekeeping'. _"I used to know Hermione's mother, and she is simply darling. Smart as a whip, too."

"'Smart' is a relative term, and one I don't use often, Mrs. Hudson, and I don't see this girl changing that."

"Oh, Sherlock, be nice. At least give her a chance!"

"Maybe I would have, had I been given the chance to see if I want her as my flat mate."

Mrs. Hudson smiled knowingly, and stayed quiet as she finished tidying.

Hours passed. Sherlock stayed in the same spot, waiting. He didn't know what to think of this. John had been a lucky find for him; his only real friend, someone who could deal with him despite his mannerisms. Sherlock knew, believe it or not, that he was a difficult person to deal with, but this didn't motivate him to change anything. Why should he? Sherlock was logical. He didn't let emotions rule him, so he made the right decisions and didn't have to worry about getting attached. Attachment was something that Sherlock Holmes always tried to avoid. Love and trust; the perfect ingredients for heartbreak. In his eyes, it is completely avoidable. One doesn't have to avoid conflict with friends or spouses. One doesn't have to be perfect, and never mess up. One only has to not get attached. Sherlock, who, contrary to popular belief, was still human. There were exceptions, such as the doctor he had come to care about, the landlady who had cared for him for so long.

Irene Adler, who still crossed his mind from time to time.

The woman. What would this woman be like? He supposed he would know soon enough. His brother's image appeared to him, "_I'm living in a world of goldfish." _

How would he handle this?

When a sharp knock came from the door, it seemed he would find out. Sherlock heard Mrs. Hudson's voice as well as the faint voice of another girl. _Hermione._

Sherlock remained in his seat and Mrs. Hudson opened the door for the girl. Sherlock stood to face his wall. No case so far. No connections to make, no links to find. No mystery for him to solve.

"Hello." A clear voice rang out behind him, which almost surprised him. She sounded quiet in the hall, but this voice radiated confidence. She sounded sure as she stepped toward him. "Sherlock Holmes, I assume?"

Sherlock sighed, and turned around. He put his hands in his pockets and looked her over. "Your parents enjoyed Shakespeare, then?"

"No. However, my father has always loved Greek mythology. It means 'messenger.' Like Hermes." She held out a hand, and Sherlock shook it briefly. "Granger is my last name, by the way."

Although he kept an air of indifference, inside Sherlock was dismayed. He could read her, but barely. Her chestnut brown hair was pulled back with a hair tie that was barely containing her curls. She wore a red and golden scarf, with a lion embroidered on the bottom of it. It seemed like a school scarf, but none he recognized, which puzzled him. Her jumper, also a deep red, had a large 'H' on it, and it was obviously handmade. It was also worn very often, with visible signs of favoritism. She didn't carry a purse, and only had a small suitcase with her. Her eyes were deep brown, and he could find absolutely no emotion in them. Beyond her clothes, he could tell nothing.

It wasn't till she arched one eyebrow at him that he realized he had simply been staring at her in silence.

Maybe, maybe Sherlock did have a mystery to solve.

He cleared his throat, "How do you feel about the violin?"


	2. A Picture's Worth

Hermione raised her eyebrows at this. "The violin?"

"Yes, the violin. I play the violin when I'm thinking."

"I have no grievances with it."

"Good. Is that all you have with you?"

"Yes. Which room is mine?"

Sherlock showed her the room, and after she sat her stuff down, he decided that this was a mystery that would be solved quickly. Maybe he was just a bit off, because of John's leaving. Maybe he just needed to think straight.

"Would you like tea?"

She assessed him for a moment. "Do you have coffee?"

The two sat in the living room, her sipping her coffee from a chipped mug. Sherlock sat across from her, staring intently at a spot just over her shoulder. She sat the mug on the coffee table, "You have questions." He noticed it was a statement, not an inquiry.

"No."

"Oh, so you have questions your pride won't allow you to ask?" She smirked, "Fine by me."

He narrowed his eyes at her, now looking fully into her eyes. Still, he found nothing. But no matter how much he wanted to find out everything about her as easily as he could with anyone else, she was right. His pride wouldn't let him ask any questions. No matter how much it pained him to admit it, he couldn't just read her like an open pamphlet. He would have to dig deeper. He had grown too used to simply glancing at a person and knowing what he needed to. He looked down to the ground, thinking, when her voice interrupted his thoughts.

"Will you play for me?"

Of everything that had happened today, this had taken him aback the most. He blanked for a moment, but then replied, "I play when I'm thinking."

"As many times as you've zoned out since I've arrived, I'd say you're thinking plenty." She looked at him intently, and his lips parted momentarily. She gave him a small smile. "Please?"

And so, even though this was something he had never done before, he stood and picked up his violin. Sherlock wasn't nervous, but this was something he had never done before. He had played in front of people, obviously, but he couldn't remember a time he entertained a simple, singular request to just play. He rested it against his shoulder and looked out the window. "What would you like me to play?"

When he looked over at her again, she wore a wide grin. "Surprise me." She moved so that she was laying back on the couch, and closed her eyes. He almost protested, almost told her that it was _his_ couch, but for some reason, some influence unknown to him, he began to play instead. He played, and when he did he could truly feel the music move through him. Music was one of the few things that Sherlock willingly let himself experience with no limitations of logic or sense. When he played music, he felt it in waves. The raw emotion that came from the sensation of a violin in his hands may not have been evident on his face, but when he heard each note kissing the air, leaving an impression on the spaces that one thought was empty, he couldn't help but allowing another exception to his usually logical mindset, and he let himself feel every sound that escaped the instrument.

When he finished, he looked over to the still figure on his couch. Her eyes were shut tight but she was not asleep. He sat the violin in its case, and walked to her. "You composed that," She said as she opened her eyes. She sat up and continued, "It's good."

Before he could respond, she glanced at her wrist watch. "It's getting late. Goodnight, Mr. Holmes."

And with that, the girl was gone.

Hermione made a habit of waking up bright and early. She evaluated the small bedroom she had woken up in. It was the smaller of the two bedrooms in the flat, and it was painted a dark purple hue. It wasn't big, but it was still nice. Maybe not home, but Hermione had learned that you can't just expect a house to be a home because it's where you live. Home was a bit more complex than that. She began to unpack her things, which wasn't much of a task. Since the war, she was used to traveling light. Pushing away bad memories, she moved her clothes into the wooden chest of drawers in the room. She muttered a wandless spell under her breath, and her duvet and pillowcases flew from her small suitcase and onto the twin bed. She looked deeper into her suitcase, and smiled when she saw a small leather bound book inside.

The witch sat Indian style on her bed with the book in front of her, flipping through it. People bustled around in the background of a picture of her, Ron, and Harry. They were at King's Cross, and the three were sharing a tearful moment as they were about to go their separate ways for the summer.

As she leafed through her photo album, the memories that she had tried so hard to avoid overwhelmed her. The Weasley twins laughed together, never still for a moment. Sirius Black smiled down at Harry, an arm around his shoulder. Hagrid, swollen with happiness, (making him more swollen than usual) held the golden trio in his large arms.

And then came the less pretty side of her photo album.

A battlefield. Green and red lights flashing. People yelled, battle cries or cries of despair? Rubble and destruction could be seen everywhere.

_Death_ could be seen everywhere.

Hermione wasn't sure if she should keep the pictures, when she heard that in the rubble, alongside a young boy's body a camera was found. Colin Creevey's pictures, which had never been appreciated much before, were soon viral in the wizarding community. Despite the popularity of his pictures, Harry, Hermione, and the boy's family were the only to attend the funeral. In times like those, she supposed it was easy to look at the pictures and be sad for those it affected, but it was even easier to overlook the ugly truth of it, and say "At least it wasn't me."

In the end, Hermione kept them. She felt it was the least she could do.

But at times like this, she wished she hadn't.

She put the album on the night stand and slowly continued to get ready for the day. She got dressed, put on her shoes, and gave herself a smile in the mirror, and tried to convince herself that it reached her eyes. As a final addition, she placed a silencing ward on her room. Last night had been okay, but God knows that sleep is a dangerous and unpredictable realm. She couldn't trust herself to sleep soundly every night, and let her new flat mate get some sleep.

Her new flat mate…

She left her room and moved on to the kitchen, firing up the coffee machine. Should she ask if he wants a cup?

And so, she moved to the living room. To her surprise, he was asleep still. He was sprawled along the couch, and a laptop sat on the desk next to him.

The man doubted her, and she knew it. He underestimated her, thought of her as average. It didn't bother her, though. She was used to being underestimated, and it never stopped her from shining. It never stopped her from blowing people away.

She made her coffee, and opened the fridge for the milk. A small giggle escaped her lips, and she grabbed a notepad from her room to write a note to tell Sherlock of her absence before she left.

Hermione had barely made it halfway down the street when a black car began to tail her. She noticed immediately, but she couldn't tell who her stalker was from its appearance. The windows were tinted to the point that not even the outline of its occupants could be seen. Hermione took a deep breath, and urged herself to remain calm. '_Panicking gets you nowhere fast, Hermione.' _

Finally, when she had walked a full block from 221B, the car pulled over and the back, passenger side window rolled down. A pretty woman with dark brown hair and a mobile phone in her hand sat inside, and she smiled at Hermione.

"Hello. It seems your ride has arrived."


	3. Methods of Storage

**A/N: Hey again! If any of you are wondering what I'm doing, I'll tell you. If you aren't wondering, looks like you're going to find out anyways! I am trying to write as much as I can, so that even when I don't have time to write a full chapter (or I am just not motivated to) I can still have an update to present those of you reading. ****J****And now, to the story!**

Hermione narrowed her eyes at the girl. "I hope you know that I can defend myself if need be."

"Won't be necessary." The young girl replied as she returned her attention to the mobile phone. "Just get in the car."

Hermione sighed. She was a veteran of bag-and-drag attempts, and she realized this wasn't one. This girl was obviously no threat. She wore an expensive dress suit, her mobile phone was completely unscathed, and her earrings were well polished. The mobile phone she carried wasn't a personal phone, Hermione realized quickly, it was a business phone. This girl was an assistant. Reaching out, Hermione opened the door and got in quickly. Pulling out her own mobile phone, she spoke, "So, am I to meet your boss, then?"

The girl riding in silence alongside her looked up. "What makes you think I'm not the boss?"

Hermione chuckled. "If you were the boss, someone else would've picked me up. What's your name?"

"Anthea."

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "No it's not."

"You're not wrong."

The witch rode quietly from then on.

-221B-

Sherlock woke only minutes after Hermione had left. He rubbed his eyes, and scrunched his nose at the smell drifting in from the kitchen. Coffee.

'_Mrs. Hudson doesn't make coffee. John and I don't drink- '_

And then it came to him. Mrs. Hudson doesn't make coffee, but the woman he now shared a flat with requested it the night before. He stood, walking to the kitchen to find a note propped against his coffee pot. The script was flowy and neat. She wrote often.

The note read,

"_Mr. Holmes,_

_I didn't want to wake you this morning to ask if you'd like a cup. I decided to make one either way. I also wanted to mention that Tupperware isn't the most efficient method of storage for human thumbs, if you'd like I can pick up some better equipment on the way back from my outing. You can reach me here."_

At the bottom, Hermione's signature lay neatly next to her phone number.

Sherlock pondered on the strange woman as he dropped two sugars into his coffee. '_Outing.'_ He peered down the hallway of the flat and sipped his coffee as he opened the door to the small, purple walled bedroom. Was this really all she had? The room was almost empty besides her bed, the chest of drawers, and her nightstand. Her suitcase sat in a corner, zipped back up. He opened it, but nothing jumped out of it. He opened her drawers, but all he found was clothes.

Her nightstand was empty, but on top of it a leather bound book was sitting. It was opened recently. A photo album.

He picked it up, leafing through the first through pages. "Nothing. Bori-" He stopped, mid-sentence. In front of him was a battlefield. What was this? A project, research, it couldn't be…

But it was. As he continued through the pictures, all the rubble, all the guns and violence, he saw her. It was a close up image of her. She was thin, and small scars and bruises riddled her face and arms. There were deep scars on her left arm. A word he couldn't make out. Her eyes were hard. He flipped back to one of the first pictures, one of her and two friends. It must have been from before. Her smile was bright, her eyes lit up with happiness. He went back to the war image.

Who exactly was Hermione Granger?

-221B-

When Hermione looked out of the window, she was in an empty underground car garage. Her chauffer pulled up to a man, standing alone in the middle of the garage. He carried a cane, wore a grey suit, and held himself with confidence. She exited the car, her mobile in her hand.

"You won't be needing that, Mrs. Granger," the man said "I don't plan on trying to harm you in any way."

The man was smug. He obviously had a high self-esteem, which was obvious to her with his simple movements and the way he looked down at the short woman in front of him. Like many people throughout her life, he underestimated the powerful woman in his presence. That wasn't to say he was confident for no reason, of course. He was smart. He obviously had an important job, his grey suit was in perfect condition, and why else would he bring her to such a secluded area?  
She remained silent, still evaluating him as he walked towards her. He spoke again, "I'd like to make you an offer, Ms. Granger." He looked her up and down, and she had to contain a smile when she saw the puzzled expression on his face. "I'd like to- "

A loud ring echoed through the parking garage. It emitted from the mobile in Hermione's hand. The man in front of him furrowed his eyebrows, staring intently at the phone in her hand. "I'd better take this."

The confused expression remained on the man's face as he watched her slide the touch screen to answer her call.  
"Where are you?" Sherlock's came through clear in Hermione's ear.

"Hello to you too! I'm out, meeting with a friend actually. Are you taking up my offer on proper storage equipment?"

Silence. Then, a very small "Yes."

"Excellent."

"Who's your friend?"

"No one of import. I'll be back soon." And with that she hung up.

"Sorry about that," the girl began with a smile. 'Anthea' stood near the car, looking at the people in front of her with a slack-jawed expression. _Someone usually spoken to with high regard, obviously. _"Your offer?"

"You shouldn't have been able to get that call here, Ms. Granger." The man leaned against his cane, "I thought I ensured this garage wouldn't have cellular service, so why could you answer that call?"

"A girl has to keep some of her secrets, sir."

"Not from me."

"This is very pleasant and all, but didn't we have an offer to discuss?" She slid her phone into the back pocket of her jeans and crossed her arms over her chest.

The man took a moment to recompose himself. "Yes, very well. I hold a certain level of interest with your new flat mate, Ms. Granger. You'd be well paid for information regarding his activities."

Hermione tilted her head for a moment and smirked up at the man in front of her. "Alright." She began to backtrack towards the car when she saw a smile fly across the man's features. "I assume _Anthea_ will fill me in on the details?"

He nodded at her. "You're smart to take up my offer. For some reason, many are opposed to the idea."

"Well, I am known for being clever." She opened the car door, and turned to the smug man behind her. "But most families stay in touch over the phone."

Mycroft's face fell immediately, and his eyes widened. "How on Ea- "

She smiled at him once more, now in the car. "Good day, Mr. Holmes."

-221B-


	4. A Friendly Wager

**A/N: Hello all! Happy New Years! I don't know about you guys, but I am so pumped about Sherlock tonight. (1/1/17, on PBS at 9PM) Also, I love, love, love reading your reviews, and they make me so excited for where this story is going and how it develops. I'll try to make sure I send a PM to anyone who does review, because I really, really appreciate it. Now, to the part you're actually here for. **

**-221B-**

"Mr. Holmes?" Hermione looked at the still figure on the couch. His hands were pressed together, his fingertips rested on his chin. His eyes were closed, but he wasn't asleep. "Nicotine patches?"

The young Holmes opened his eyes to look at the young woman in front of him, carrying two paper bags. "Helps me think."

"You're using four of them."

Sherlock sighed and stood up, moving past her and to the kitchen as he replied, "It's a four patch problem."

"I see." She was beside him now, standing at the counter with her paper bags. She removed a large glass jar that used a latch mechanism to open and close. Within the biggest one, which was probably big enough to fit a human head in, were smaller ones. There were six in total, and Sherlock inspected them thoroughly. "They're airtight. You won't have to worry about contamination in those, I assure you."

"You can call me Sherlock."

"What?"

"Well that is my name, and we're sharing a flat now. I believe that is a well enough reason to be on a first-name basis, don't you?"

Hermione chuckled. "I suppose you're right."

"What's in the other bag?"

She raised an eyebrow at the detective, who was unknowingly leaning towards the bag, trying to get a small peek of its contents. Hermione grabbed the bag at its top, closing it. "You Holmes boys are a nosy bunch, aren't you?"

When she turned her head to look up at him, she couldn't contain her smile at his shocked face. "Are you okay, Sherlock?"

"Us Holmes boys?"

"Well yes, I met your brother less than an hour ago. Real charmer, that one."

"My brother introduced himself to you without trying to buy you as an informational service?" Sherlock looked ready to burst. Was this girl sure she had met Mycroft Holmes?

"Incorrect on both accounts. He surely didn't introduce himself, but he did try to pay me for surveillance."

Sherlock must have realized that he was showing his surprise very openly with his features, or he must have heard a small laugh that Hermione was trying to contain escape, because he quickly tried to compose himself. He turned away and cleared his throat, "It's a pity that no one takes him up on that offer. Being paid consistently can put one at quite an advantage."  
At this Hermione outright snorted, in a most unladylike manner. Sherlock turned back to her, his eyes widened only slightly.

"What makes you think I turned him down?"

**-221B-**

Hermione and Sherlock were staring each other down intently. The two were in deep thought, looking occasionally at the board in front of them. Five pounds sat on the table, next to the board.

_"__What do you do in your free time?" Hermione asked him. "I've read your friend's blog, Mrs. Hudson said it'd be a fair warning." At this, Sherlock gave a small smirk. He didn't let Hermione see it, of course._

_ "__I typically don't have free time."_

_ "__Oh, so when you do you wear nicotine patches and lay in the same place for hours?"_

_He narrowed his eyes at her, "I do experiments."_

_ "__Come on! There has to be something you do other than crime solving that's actually enjoyable."_

_At this, he turned to the girl. It hadn't gotten past him, he definitely noticed that she said 'other than solving crimes'. This girl was more interesting than he had expected, but he wouldn't make that obvious. _

_ "__I'm good at board games."_

_She smiled. "There you go! Which ones?"_

_ "__All of them."_

_ "__I bet I could beat you at any board game of your choice."_

_He scoffed immediately, "I've never lost a board game."_

_ "__I'll wager five pounds."_

_He looked at her as though she had grown another head. They had just met, but this girl did know that he was one of the best- no, _the_best detective in London. For a moment, he considered going easy on her. He would choose a simple children's game, and when he won she could easily place the blame on chance and luck. But then he saw the smirk on her face. So, he donned one of his own as he decided. _

_ "__Chess."_

_Chess. The game Hermione had lost more than any other. Not because she was bad at it, not at all. Hermione was great at chess, but when it came to her friends, she decided she couldn't win everything. With Sherlock Holmes? She didn't mind._

The flat mates were only a few moves into the game, but Hermione already knew. She knew not only what moves could be made, but she knew what moves the man across from her was going to make. She would have to admit though, of any opponent, Sherlock Holmes had come the closest to beating her. He even thought he had won, he smiled triumphantly as he carried out one of the final steps of his strategy, and he looked at her with a confident glint in his eye.

And then, she moved her bishop. Sherlock raised his hand, to carry out his next move, when he realized. That was checkmate. His jaw quite literally dropped, and he tried to stutter out a few words. "How." He finally demanded.

"Strategy, of course." She grabbed the money and put it in her pocket. "I believe I've earned this."

She stood to return to her bedroom, but was surprised when Sherlock's hand shot out and caught her arm. Hermione turned to him, an eyebrow raised. "I can stay if you'll miss me that badly."  
"You're clever."

"I know that. I made top marks in school and found no reason to stop being smart,"

"No, you're cleverer than anyone thinks you are."

She gave Sherlock faint smile. "I suppose- "

"Let's play another game. It's called Deductions. Brother Dear and I played it as kids, and I

believe it would be much more entertaining than a game of chess."

Hermione tilted her head to the side. Before she could say anything, Sherlock continued.

"A client left behind his jacket, years ago. You're going to tell me what you know about the

client based on the jacket."  
"What makes you think I can do that?"

"What makes you think I believe you can?"

The two caught eyes, and neither was willing to look away. Hermione was never opposed to a challenge. She grinned at her flat mate and nodded. Sherlock walked down the hall and returned soon after with a dark blue jacket. He handed it to Hermione, and signaled for her to start when she was ready.

The witch took a deep breath. To show off or to stay humble? No one knew to what extent Hermione could deduce things. Perhaps it was time for someone to know. She looked back up at Sherlock, and she saw that he already convinced she couldn't do this.

"Well, the owner is obviously female." Sherlock began to roll his eyes, but she continued despite his silent discouragement. "Long hairs in the hood. It originally belonged to an ex-boyfriend. They broke up, he moved on, she didn't. Grease stains on the arms. Comfort eating. She has anxiety. The bottom half of the zipper is worn down, when she's nervous, she fiddles with the zipper. She wears it constantly, there are signs obvious signs of many washes and wears. The girl was obviously in a state for quite a while after her break up, but she's moved on now."

"Why do you think that?"

"It's been years." Hermione smiled a little, "And it's still in your flat."

Sherlock assessed the girl in front of him. She was certainly a piece of work, he decided. One that he wanted to know more about. And so he finally asked the question that had him wearing four nicotine patches.

"Where were you fighting?"  
Hermione's expression remained neutral, but her tone hardened a little. "Excuse me?"

"The pictures. You're a soldier."

No matter how hard she was trying to contain it, emotions flooded her face. "That I am."

Hermione didn't doubt the man would go through her room. She was thankful for the charms on her pictures. Hogwarts was now a desolate old building. Curses that flew through the air were gunshots, bullets whizzing, bombs blowing.

"Where were you fighting? I didn't immediately recognize the place. Somewhere North, obviously, but where?"

Behind the pair, a light flickered. Hermione closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Exhaling, she began to explain, but she was saved by a knock at the door.

Obviously annoyed, Sherlock gruffly yelled out, "Come in."

A young woman, about 23, stumbled into the room. "Mr. Holmes?" She looked at the two in front of her, "I- Well I believe my husband has been murdered."

Sherlock's head turned to the woman who had just arrived, and then to the woman who had arrived the day before. He stood, pulling the wooden chair to the middle of the sitting room. "Sit, please."


	5. Hermione Granger, Thunder Thief

**A/N: Hello! Thanks for all the reviews you have left, they make my day! A special thank you to Annamonk, who has left very kind reviews on each chapter, and my best friend Max, who reads every chapter and helps notice any errors I make ****J****. I was hoping to have this posted yesterday or earlier today, but a friend came over so it was pushed back. P.S. I don't know about you guys, but S4E1 broke my heart. Now finally, on to the story. **

Hermione allowed herself a small sigh of relief. It wasn't like she didn't know her cover-up. She and Harry had formulated it early on. An underground war. Not many knew about it. In Scotland, a long-running hatred between two large families. But being asked by Sherlock Holmes had surprised her.

As the new client settled into her chair, Sherlock's face told her exactly what she had already expected. He wouldn't forget. But, Hermione didn't have time to dwell on this, because as the woman began to speak, she had both of them at full attention.

"Well, last week, my husband was found dead. In an alleyway. They announced the cause of death to be suicide. An overdose. But Joseph was," The woman paused and wiped under her eyes swiftly. Her voice trembled as she continued, "He was happy.'

Hermione whispered softly to the woman, "It's okay, ma'am." She offered a comforting smile, "You're very brave to speak to Mr. Holmes about this."

She scowled at Sherlock, daring him to roll his eyes or scoff.

After a moment of deep breathing, their client spoke again. "I believe he's been murdered."

At this, the consulting detective finally spoke. "What was your husband's profession, Mrs..."

"Susan. Susan Howard. Joseph was..." The woman was rendered silent, as though she was debating on what to say. Hermione recognized this look. The woman wasn't sure if she should tell the truth. It was a situation Hermione had found herself in often given her long history of shenanigans at Hogwarts.

"Mrs. Howard, you need to tell us the full truth, or else there is no way we can assist you in finding your husband's murderer."

It was Sherlock's turn to scowl at the girl. _Us? We? Does this girl really think that she could solve a murder as well as I could? But, I suppose John didn't solve our cases. Although he assisted in them, I was the true brains behind them. _Hermione's voice broke him away from his thoughts, and he realized he had missed something. Something that apparently held some weight in the outcome of the case, because Hermione's face was grim as she asked, "Mrs. Howard, would anyone in your husband's... business want him dead?"

Susan broke down, holding her head in her hands. "He didn't work alone. I don't know who his boss even was." Her body shook with silent sobs, and when she looked up at Sherlock there was a plea clear in her eyes. "My husband was keeping money that wasn't his. I believe his boss killed him."

Hermione nodded in silence. Sherlock nodded as well, though he still didn't even know the man's profession. For some reason, a certain witch we occupying his mind for that part of the conversation. He'd have to do something about that. Opening a small notepad, he got Mrs. Howard's information and proceeded to ensure her he would do all he could to solve her husband's murder. With a last sniffle and many thanks, the woman was gone.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his new flat mate. He allowed himself a moment to try, once again, to deduce the woman. No matter how he focused, all he knew were the basics. He didn't know her past, couldn't even tell her present. The most he could tell? She was smart. More so than most. She was underestimated, but it didn't slow her down or discourage her. If anything, it seemed to light a fire within her, push her. He pondered on this some as he walked to his bedroom. Looping his scarf around his neck and pulling his Belstaff over his shoulders, he made a decision.

From the door, Hermione heard his inquiry. "You're a soldier."

"Yes."

"Seen a lot of death then," Sherlock pulled his glove over his hand, "Been in a bit of trouble, too, I'll bet."

"Far more than necessary."

The pair stared each other down.

"Would you like to see some more?"

**-221B-**

The pair exited 221B together, Sherlock trying to catch a cab and Hermione folding her arms over her chest, wishing her jumper allowed her a bit more warmth. "Your mother likes to knit then?" Hermione rolled her eyes at this observation.

"My mother couldn't knit to save her life."

Sherlock turned to her, an eyebrow raised, "Mother figure, then?"

"Yes."

"An aunt?"

"We weren't related. Unless you count her wanting me to marry her son, of course," Hermione smirked as a cab pulled over. "You aren't used to being wrong, are you?"

In an act of kindness, she pretended to not hear something that sounded suspiciously close to Holmes muttering, "Not in the slightest." The two got into the cab and Sherlock was soon staring at his mobile.

"You don't use your mobile often," Sherlock began. "No social media, no digital footprint, really."

"Do I really interest you so much that you've researched me?" Hermione was absolutely delighted to see a slight tinge of pink on Sherlock's cheeks. "I'm flattered, truly."

"Why?"

"I don't really need a mobile phone," And she wasn't lying. She only had one because two years ago Harry insisted she get one, for emergencies. The witch quickly learned that having a mobile phone for emergencies certainly didn't prevent disaster. She tried to ignore the pang in her chest at the thought of Harry Potter, but it was hard to avoid. Hermione looked out the small window, watching people and buildings pass by. "I don't really have anyone to keep in touch with."

**-221B-**

St. Bart's morgue was empty when Sherlock and Hermione entered it. Aside from Mr. Joseph Howard, of course. Sherlock moved to the side of the body immediately, pulling out a small magnifier lens, examining the man's mouth hands, and feet.

Hermione strolled to the counter of jars on the west side of the room. She crouched down, looking at what seemed to be thumbs when Sherlock's voice came behind her, "Well?"

"Well what?" She picked the jar up. _Thirty-eight-year-old male. Forty-two-year-old female. _"Do you suppose I could borrow these?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, waiting for her to answer him. She was waiting for the same from him, and the two glared for a moment. He relented, "I'll ask, Granger- "

"Hermione." In response to his annoyed look, she said with a grin, "Flat mates, remember?"

"What do you see? Better yet, what do you observe?"

"Everything, if I'm being quite honest." A challenge was present in Hermione's eyes, mischief even. Sherlock's eyes presented a force equal to hers.

A small voice interrupted the silent battle going on in the room. "Err, Sherlock?"

Hermione passed Sherlock, interrupting his reply to the woman in the room. She held a hand out to her, beginning, "Hermione Granger, pleased to meet you Molly." Molly glanced at the name tag on her lab coat, then back to Hermione as the witch continued, "It appears Mr. Howard here has died of overdose, which isn't incorrect, but in this case wasn't suicide."

Molly's eye widened. She looked at Sherlock for a moment, hoping for some sort of confirmation of the girl's words. But, Sherlock eyes were trained on the girl in front of her, his jaw clenched.

"The police tried their best of course, but just as always they weren't adequate enough to pay attention to detail, not any detail of import at least. Although there were obvious signs of suicide, they failed to notice the bruise on Mr. Howard's temple and his feet."

"Excuse me Miss, but what do those have to do with the death?" Molly asked. As Hermione continued, Sherlock continued to glare. Molly wondered how Hermione didn't notice Sherlock's stare. But that's when it hit her; of course she noticed. She just didn't care in the slightest. A small smile graced her face as Hermione continued.

"I'm glad you asked, Molly. The soles of the victim's feet are cracked and swollen. In his final moments, Mr. Howard was running. The bruise on his temple is the final indication of murder, of course. It's obviously the barrel of a gun. Held at gun point, forced to take the pills, and the bottle left in his hand. The perfect image of suicide."

"I'll be taking these with me, if you don't mind, Molly." She gestured to the thumbs in the jar, and Molly nodded quickly. Her smile was no longer restrained. Hermione now turned to Sherlock Holmes, and winked. "I'll wait for you outside. Scotland Yard is our next stop, yes?"


	6. More Than Could be Chewed

**A/N: Hey guys! Thanks as always for your wonderful reviews; they keep me going. I'm really excited about this chapter, I hope you guys enjoy it! I apologize for the long wait, again?** **On to the story.**

**-221B-**

Hermione leaned against the wall of St. Bart's hospital, a smirk planted on her face. That was fun. When was the last time she'd done something like that? Enjoyed a moment of victory after a lifetime of loss? When was the last time a challenge had come upon her that wasn't a matter of life or death, but simply a challenge? Sherlock Holmes certainly challenged her. She could tell his intelligence matched, maybe even surpassed her own. She shook her head. _'Let's not get crazy.'_

"Why Scotland Yard?"

At this, she shot her flat mate a quizzical look. "What do you mean 'Why Scotland Yard?'? We have to read the note."

"The note?" Sherlock scoffed. This woman tested his patience. And, though he wouldn't admit it, he was a bit cross about her stealing his thunder. "Why on Earth do you believe he left a note?

Hermione sighed and rolled her eyes. "Aren't you a detective? He was a drug dealer who stole from his boss, he knew he was going to die. Of course there is a note." Sherlock's cheeks tinged pink, and he willed the blush away. So that was what he missed. A cab pulled over, and she got in. He tried to ignore the infuriating grin on her face as he got in behind her, telling the driver, "To Scotland Yard."

**-221B-**

Sherlock led the way through the police station, finally stopping in front of a desk where an aging man sat. Hermione looked him over. He was engrossed by one of the many papers littering his desk. His salt and pepper hair matched his scruffy chin, and there were dark circles under his eyes. _Unmarried. Stays at work overtime often, obviously holds a higher position than others here. A police detective. _Her thoughts were interrupted when Sherlock cleared his throat. "Gerald- "

Hermione tried to contain a grin as she said, "His name is Greg."

The man, Greg Lestrade looked up from his desk to see a man he knew well, Sherlock Holmes, glaring down at the woman standing across from him. She was probably a full foot shorter than him, but her smirk presented a challenge. Sherlock replied, more irritated than he could put into words, "My God, how could you possibly know that?"

She pointed to the name plate on Lestrade's desk, sticking her tongue out at Sherlock.

Letting out a shocked chuckle, Greg stood. "Alright then, Sherlock, good to see you again. Whad'ya need?"

Letting go a long sigh, Sherlock replied, "Joseph Howard's suicide note."

Lestrade stood awkwardly, glancing at Hermione and then back to Sherlock. "Well-" He was interrupted by the pair in front of him, speaking in unison.  
"I'm with him."

"She's with me."

Greg slowly began to smile. He held his hand out to Hermione, introducing himself. "Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"Hermione Granger." She shook his hand and returned his grin. "So, about this note?"

"Ah yes. Anderson has it."

**-221B-**

Sherlock didn't miss the sly smile on Hermione's face. He also didn't miss that it had appeared shortly after he rolled his eyes at the mention of Anderson's name. She enjoyed his torment, apparently.

They pushed through some hallways and doors, until finally they reached a small grey room with two metal tables and no windows, aside from the tiny one on the door. Inside was a skinny, greasy-haired man and a short, mixed woman. The woman was turned away, a smart phone in her hand, immersed in whatever was on its screen.

"Hello Anderson, Donovan," The woman nodded, but remained focused on her screen. The man, who was standing over a table with various objects- evidence, she realized, looked up quickly. His eyes trained on Hermione first, but then moved to Sherlock. A sneer was planted on his face, and Sherlock's face certainly held no adoration. Lestrade's voice back to the matter at hand, "These two want to see the note."

"Who's she?" At Anderson's inquiry, Donovan's head whipped up so quickly, Hermione was sure it had hurt. Hermione opened her mouth to reply but was cut off by Sherlock's irate voice, "She's with me."

"I think they understand that bit, Sherlock. I'm Hermione Granger." She held her hand out to Anderson and he shook it with a slight surprise. The younger Holmes glared at her, and she scowled back. The other three parties in the room looked on in awe. Since when was a challenge to Sherlock not some criminal mastermind? Despite the three loose jaws in the room, Hemione continued, "So, this note?"  
But, before they could transition to that topic, Donovan walked swiftly towards Hermione, grabbing her by the crook of her arm, and then whisked her out of the door. "How on Earth do you know Sherlock Holmes?"

Hermione, unfazed by her actions, said, "Well, we are doing a flat share."

"So, what are you, John 2.0"

Hermione narrowed her eyes minutely at the woman in front of her. She wasn't very sure she liked this woman, and her cold replied sent that message clearly, "No. I don't know if you were listening, but my name is Hermione."

Sally stared at her for a moment longer. "I have the note. I would give you the same warning I gave John, but it seems my word isn't worth much in this case."

Hermione took a deep breath and let the detective walk back into the small room ahead of her. She plastered a smile on her face and crossed the doorway. Sally was a few steps in front of her, pulling something out of her back pocket. Sherlock sat at one of the metal tables, opposite Anderson, with one leg crossed over the other. Sally walked briskly to him as Hermione closed the door behind her, and when she turned back to her flat mate, she saw a note drop to the table, and she heard Sally say, "Go ahead and do your thing, _freak." _

The result was instantaneous.

The one light bulb that illuminated the small room flickered. All parties turned to Hermione, and fury rolled and crashed in waves off her and consumed her person. Her eyes were hard and dark, and one could swear that her curly, brown hair was crackling. Though she was a small person, she seemed to fill the room as her stony eyes turned to Donovan. "Excuse me?"

The room was beginning to get warm. Donovan was blushing deeply, and her eyes were wide. The room seemed to get brighter and brighter as she tried to stutter out a response. Sherlock stood and moved away from the table, wary eyes on his flat mate who seemed to be radiating power.

The light seemed to get brighter still as she moved closer to the detective, who now seemed to shrink upon herself. She was easily taller than Hermione, but that didn't matter. With venom, she spat, "Did you just call him a _freak?"_

Donovan stared at the woman who was now standing directly in front of her, and simply nodded. She seemed to be shaking.

Hermione narrowed her eyes. But, though the anger that surrounded her was overwhelming, she did not yell. She did not raise her voice, quite the opposite. She lowered her voice to a dangerous whisper, but in the still fear in the room, she was heard loud and clear.

"I understand that you could never hope to be nearly as intelligent a woman as Sherlock Holmes is, but that gives you no right to try and degrade him with petty words." Hermione leaned closer, continuing, "You think you're more human than him? You think you have some writ of passage because you're a high and mighty police officer?"

"Well, allow me to- "Hermione lifted a hand and Donovan flinched, but the witch simply grabbed the note that was still laying on the table. The light was dangerously bright, and the three men present squinted, still completely silent in their awe. Hermione's smile was frightening, and Sally's face proved this. "_enlighten you. _I have known Sherlock Holmes for no more than two days, and you for only thirty minutes at the very most, and I can tell you with confidence that he is far more human than you will ever be."

Hermione brought her free arm to her left forearm, and glared up at Donovan once more.

"Me and Sherlock will be leaving now." There was venom in her eyes, in her voice. Sally was turning pale now, and let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Hermione turned to Lestrade and Anderson saying, "I'm taking this, Greg."

He simply nodded, as he felt contradicting her wasn't a great idea. Sherlock moved to the door, and Hermione followed. She tried to push her anger down her throat, but found herself turning back towards the small room while she was in the doorway. Her eyes narrowed once more, focused on a certain Sally Donovan. Her rage swelled again as she said, "By the way, if I _ever_ hear you call Sherlock Holmes a _freak_ again," There was obvious distaste on her face simply for having said the word. Despite this, her eyes burned into Donovan as she finished, "I will personally ensure that you regret it."

The small lightbulb, which had turned the room into a beacon of heat energy and yellow light, finally blew, and Sally let out a small shriek as the room was plunged into darkness.


End file.
